.

8

      Logan unlocked the front door to his flat and slumped inside. He should have been home an hour and a half ago, but sodding Finnie had insisted on following Mrs McLeod up to the hospital. Just to let her know he was watching her. Dickhead.

      Taking one look at the lounge – dust sheets over the sofa, carpets ripped up, bare light bulb, the smell of paint – Logan decided he really couldn’t be bothered with the decorating. So five minutes later he was sitting in Archibald Simpson, a converted bank on the corner of Union Street and King Street. The pub was busy, full of off-duty police officers and assorted locals, numbing the memory of another week with beer, wine, and spirits.

      Logan sat at his usual table, nursing a pint of Stella and waiting for his mushroom stroganoff. He had the whole weekend to commit DIY, one night off wasn’t going to hurt.

      Someone said, ‘Hey, Billy No Mates, where’s your wrinkly old girlfriend then?’ and Logan looked up from his pint.

      Samantha – the Identification Bureau’s only Goth – was standing over him, holding a pitcher of something evil and alcoholic-looking. She had those strange tribal tube things in her earlobes, stretching them beneath half a dozen sparkly piercings. Another ring in her bottom lip. Scarlet lipstick, black eye makeup, Marilyn Manson T-shirt, black leather jeans, pixie boots… But it was the top of her head that made Logan stare.

      ‘New hairdo?’

      ‘You like? It’s called “flame red”.’

      ‘Thought you Goths were into black, black and more black.’

      ‘You’re such an old man.’

      ‘Your arse.’

      ‘You wish.’ She winked. ‘Anyway, got to go, it’s Bruce’s birthday and we’re going to get him completely weaselled. Vodka and Red Bull to the rescue—Ow!’ Someone had wrapped her up in a bear hug. ‘Get off me you moron!’

      Detective Constable Rennie – tanned and grinning – kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hey beautiful, love the hair. Miss me?’

      ‘No.’ Samantha struggled her way free and pulled up the sleeve of her T-shirt, exposing a pad of white gauze bandage. ‘If you’ve buggered my new tattoo, I’ll bloody kill you!’

      ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’ Rennie fluttered his eyelashes. ‘Forgive me?’

      ‘You are such an arsehole!’ She stormed off.

      The constable watched her go. And when she was safely out of earshot, said, ‘Phwoar… I would. Wouldn’t you? Bet she’s filthy in the bedroom…’ He gave himself a small shake. ‘Anyway, drinkies: the prodigal Rennie has returned!’

      Three minutes later he was back from the bar with two pints of Stella and a packet of cheese and onion. ‘Seriously,’ he said, handing over Logan’s drink, ‘you should go to Thailand. It was brilliant…’ and that started a half-hour monologue on how great it was to get out into the real country and meet real locals and eat real Thai food and see real orang-utans and have a real massage. ‘And,’ he leaned forward, ‘I met someone.’

      ‘What, in Thailand? Got yourself a mail-order bride?’

      ‘Cheeky bugger. No, she’s from Inverness, a lecturer.’ The constable held up a hand. ‘And before you say anything: I checked her passport. She’s older than I am.’

      Logan smiled. ‘How much older?’

      Shrug. ‘Couple of years.’

      ‘Ten, fifteen, twenty?’

      ‘Hey, at least I’ve got a girlfriend. Unlike some sad bastards.’

      ‘Touché.’

      Two pints later and Rennie was in full whinge – going on about how it wasn’t fair that he’d been assigned to DI McPherson. ‘I mean the man’s a bloody jinx, isn’t he? “Accident prone” doesn’t even come close. And you know what we did today? Went looking for a bunch of stolen shotguns. Shotguns. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.’ He drained his pint. ‘Want another one?’

      ‘I’ve got the day off tomorrow: what do you think?’

      ‘Come on, it’ll be … it’ll be fun.’ Rennie was a little unsteady on his feet as they wound their way up Union Street. The place was buzzing – people staggering from pub to club. Lots of happy faces and quite a few miserable ones too.

      Somewhere up ahead a group of drunken men were singing Sto Lat, a traditional Polish folk song borne on the wings of lager and vodka. A ramshackle chorus of Flower Of Scotland started up in competition.

      At least the Poles were in tune.

      ‘No it won’t. It’ll be bloody horrible,’ said Logan as they crossed the road and made their way down Belmont Street, past Café Drummond and its little knot of banished smokers.

      ‘You wouldn’t be there on your own, we could … could set you up with one of Emma’s friends. She’s bound to know someone who’s desperate—’

      ‘I’m not going to a dinner party.’

      They joined the queue for the kebab shop.

      ‘Please? I don’t really have any other growed-up friends.’

      A lanky man near the front of the queue was swearing loudly into his mobile phone, ‘No, you fuckin’ listen to me – you tell him he gets over here with the stuff now, or I’m gonnae kill his ma and fuck the corpse!’ Denim jacket, ripped jeans, hair down to the middle of his back, cheekbones sharp enough to slice cheese. Heroin: the ultimate slimming aid.

      ‘Anyway,’ said Rennie, ‘what’s wrong with dinner parties? It’s what civil…’ Belch. ‘Civilized adults do.’

      The man on the phone was still going strong. ‘I don’t fuckin’ care if he’s havin’ a fuckin’ heart attack! You tell him to get his arse over here!’

      ‘What makes you think I need you to fix me up with anyone? What am I, a charity case…’ Logan trailed off. Four men had just marched round the corner from Union Street. Not meandered, or staggered, but marched. They were dressed in the standard CCTV-avoidance costume: hoodies and baseball caps, their faces hidden in the shadows.

      Logan nudged Rennie. ‘Look left… Your other left. Four IC-One males.’

      ‘Uh-huh. And?’

      ‘Don’t you ever read the day book? Someone got stabbed last night on Thistle Street. They got four hoodies on camera, running from the scene.’

      ‘No, I don’t want to fuckin’ speak to him! You tell him I’m no’ fuckin’ around anymore… Aye… Don’t be fuckin’ stupid…’

      The four hoodies were less than a dozen feet away now, making for the front of the kebab queue and the swearing man.

      Hoodie Number One pulled something out of his pocket. ‘Oi, you, Retard! Kevin Fookin’ Murray!’ He had a face like streaky bacon, with a big prominent nose. The accent was pure Manchester. ‘What did I Fookin’ tell yeh?’

      Kevin Murray ignored him. ‘Naw, I’m no’ gonnae give him another week, I want it now!’

      ‘You Fookin’ deaf, Murray?’ One flick of the wrist and the thing in his hand unfolded into a butterfly knife.

      Logan swore. So much for a quiet night out – he should have stayed at home with a paintbrush. He grabbed Rennie and stepped forward, getting an outraged, ‘This is a queue here, you know?’ from the person in front of them.

      Hoodie Number One shoved Murray. He staggered, scowled. Then told the person on the other end he’d call them back. ‘Fuck’s your problem?’

      Hoodies Two through Four were fanning